Morpheus' Kingdom
by Danika-Arya
Summary: Three books lie on a desk. Professor Dumbledore, whose desk this is, has reason to believe they are the same story... Open the book, and read the truth that lies behind the words. Slight AU, DH, SLASH! First part of Chapter Two up- Draco's book.
1. Author's Notes

MORPEHUS' KINGDOM

AUTHOR'S NOTES

A/N: This will be my only input in the entire story, right until the end. The disclaimer, summary, rating and note will come only in this chapter, and there will be no notes on the top of the chapter, as that distracts from the main story. I will instead update this page each chapter so that if you do not want to read an author's note etc, you don't have to. I know that Ginny's real name is Ginevra, but Virginia suits this story better, so don't review about that.

This is going to be SLASH, and if you don't like that then I did warn you. So don't flame me about that.

This is also going to be slight AU: For instance, Sirius never died and the war was fought and lost in Harry/Draco's 6th Year, Ginny's 5th. For the sake of the book, Harry never went to Hogwarts, Ron and his brothers are dead, and Hermione never existed. Sorry folks, but I promise it'll get better eventually; I might even add Hermione and Ron in. It depends.

**Disclaimer: **J. K. Rowling, Bloomsbury, Warner Bros and Scholastic own all Harry Potter characters. I own nothing, and if you sue me you will have no legal backup.

**Summary: **When Draco's mother dies, he feels his life is over. Forced to spend the summer with his awful cousin Virginia, he escapes into daydreams instead. Virginia is always the centre of attention. Pretty and popular, she uses black magic to keep it that way. But secretly she'd like to leave it all behind. When Harry, a beautiful, strange boy arrives out of nowhere and Draco falls head-over-heels, the three start to doubt that what they've been told about themselves it true.

Unable to resist the chance to find out who they really are, they follow the truth that calls from their dreams. But will they like the truth? And as sleep closes in, can they be sure they will wake again?

**Warnings:** SLASH, appearing in about Chapter three and developing at the end. Bad language, use of drugs and underage sex.

**Rating: **Hard R/Soft NC-17


	2. Chapter One

MORPHEUS' KINGDOM

CHAPTER ONE

There are four books lying on the polished wooden desk. Each of them tells a story. Professor Dumbledore, whose desk this is, has reason to believe it is the same story. But the titles of the books would appear to contradict him.

The second book is made by hand. Hard tanned leather has been carefully sewn around pages that have clearly been hand made. But although the title has been burnt onto the cover, the same words are written again inside with plain black ink; a rather pressured hand with blotches across the pages, which make it look although the author has been crying:

**Phoenix Tears**

The third book is bound in black leather and the pages are smooth and creamy. The writer has appropriately chosen a thick nibbed fountain pen and in violet swirls and spikes the words march across the pages. The book's title is stencilled in silver above a delicate red rose:

Virginia Weasley's Book Of Lies

The fourth book, though somewhat thin, is of fine quality. The forest green front cover has an elegant silver border, and a clear see-through pocket has been expertly sewn onto the leather. A card inside the pocket reads:

_Dragon's book of honour_

The silver dragon curling around the border has emeralds for eyes, and seems to be watching you intently. The fine parchment pages hold row upon row of elegant copperplate handwriting, and on these pages, our story begins...

A DRAGON'S HONOUR

_Draco's Book_

_Peace, peace! He is not dead, he doth not sleep-_

_He hath awakened from the dream of life-_

'_Tis we, who lost in visions, keep_

_With phantoms an unprofitable strife._

_- _Percy Bysshe Shelley

I will begin by describing the painting my mother left me in her will. I hadn't expected to inherit anything, although I knew all her money would go into my trust fund. But my father refused to even speculate as she hustled me out of the car and up the steps of the solicitor's office. I stumbled on the second step and heard my father's gust of irritating and he helped haul me up again. Looking at the green-and-silver tie, white shirt and grey trousers that compromised my school uniform (because my father refused to allow me to put on black for mourning, I felt a streak of blood slide down one leg, and winced.

"For crying out loud," my father snapped in a fierce whisper. "You could at least try to walk properly." Then he sailed into the solicitor's office ahead of me and I heard him greet someone in his bright social voice that he only uses for people that he has a use for. I trailed after him, and stopped inside the doorway when I saw my cousin, Virginia, waiting for us.

I have only recently discovered that she is my cousin. We don't get on at school, and I treated her as the scum of the wizarding world. I'm not allowed to now. Since she lost all six of her brothers to Lord Voldemort, with whom my father regularly associates with, she is deemed too delicate for me to insult.

She was standing in the hallway with her parents and even in the numb, dazed state I'd been living in since my mother's death I felt the same instinctive gush of loathing I always feel in Virginia's presence. Most unfairly, I thought bitterly, she was looking artistically pale in an expensive inky black dress and a black ribbon that tied back her red hair. I regarded that ribbon with disgust. It was a typical Virginia touch, a staged quality that I instinctively distrusted.

I stood in the doorway, wondering if my cousin had equipped herself with a black lace handkerchief as well, while my father accepted my aunt and uncle's condolences with brisk politeness. I annoyed myself by wishing he had pretended to care a little more.

My uncle, on the other hand, was genuinely grieving. While my aunt Molly spoke in hushed tones to my father and briefly pressed my hand sympathetically, Uncle Arthur stared straight ahead and spoke in monosyllables until the solicitor arrived and ushered us into a room filled with straight black chairs.

The reading of the will didn't last long. I was officially given all my mother's money in complicated legalese that no one attempted to follow. The lawyer paused in the middle of a convoluted clause to ask if my other uncle was expected and my aunt Molly shook her head.

"Sirius is travelling," she explained with a touch of embarrassment. "And we haven't been able to contact him."

Sirius is my other Uncle. Harry's parents died when he was a baby, and the circumstances are mysterious. So Sirius, who travels around the world collecting things and is wanted in several countries for transporting illegal goods, looks after him. I have never met Harry, and I suppose he will be just as annoying and horrible as Virginia, so I hope never to meet him.

"Then we will move on to individual legacies," the lawyer informed us, and turned to a thicker sheaf of papers on a nearby table.

My father acquired a drawing my mother had made of him on their honeymoon, a smiling gentleman in an Italian garden, and showed little reaction to the gesture. Virginia looked sorrowful over a small sketch of her favourite of my mother's cats: probably wondering how much it would fetch at the pawnbroker's down Diagon Alley.

By then I had realized that I was due for some kind of bequest and hoped it would not be in the same vein as the others. I'm embarrassed by paintings of me, unlike Virginia, who glories in them and has her own portrait displayed prominently in her dormitory at school: a serious eleven-year-old crowned with Titian hair, dressed in school uniform with the gold and red tie of her house, yet still managing to look extremely elegant, if not pretty.

It was with dread that I watched the lawyer produce another picture frame when he got to my name. But the painting he gave me was a landscape. I took it automatically, puzzled by the choice. It wasn't one of my mother's better works. The castle in the foreground looked incomplete and the purple mountains behind it too artistic to be real. A river flowed sluggishly across the painting but nowhere did it catch the light because the sky above was an unrelieved slate grey.

My father made a slight 'tch' of disapproval and asked if it would need much insurance. I looked up as the lawyer confessed he doubted it, and caught a look passing between my aunt and uncle that I could only interpret as disapproval, although whether that was of my mother or the painting I couldn't tell. Virginia, on the other hand, seemed fascinated by the gift and craned her head to study it intently.

"It's not like Aunt Narcissa's other paintings," she said, stating the obvious in the little-girl voice she puts on when she has an audience. "Maybe she was trying to draw a memory, or a dream."

I jerked my painting away jealously and hugged it to my chest, ignoring Virginia's hurt expression. No one said anything for a moment. Then my uncle Arthur, the family peacemaker, stepped into the breach.

"If that's the last, we should be leaving. Molly, are you ready to go?" He staggered upright. Although he isn't much older than my father, he walked with a limp and used a silver-topped cane to walk with, much like my father's, although instead of a snake's head, a badger sat proudly on top of it. Virginia went quickly and unnecessarily to help him stand and Aunt Molly turned to father.

"I'll owl you, Lucius," she said quietly. "About that other matter..." She and my father both glanced at me at that point and I hugged my painting tighter, deliberately ignoring them. I was used to my father conspiring with other people about me: the problem child. My father has spent most of my life trying to tidy me away. And I didn't doubt that another plot, like the one that had deposited me at boarding school at the age of eleven, was underway to rid me of my awkward and socially inconvenient grief.

"Of course," said my father to Molly, who was busy bustling around and collecting everyone's things together. Virginia rose with a sad expression still on her face, and walked stiffly towards me. We exchanged the typical family greeting- kisses on both pale cheeks- with no real meaning behind them and absolutely no expression. Then she turned to leave.

"See you at school," she said mockingly. Then she was gone.

Surprisingly, my father held off for a few weeks, leaving me to sit in my green and silver bedroom he had decorated for me and stare at my painting. I should have realised what was preoccupying him. My mother had finally given up the battle against her cancer a month before the long summer holidays- necessitating my early removal from school. In some ways this was not inconvenient since I only missed the end-of-year exams, and I invariably did well at them.

However, what my mother had failed to consider when she died was that my father had a very definite schedule for the summer holidays. He celebrated my release from boarding school by packing me off to my mother for a month while he went to mysterious meetings which I had never had any wish to, or had actually attended, with a combination of friends and clients. It would be out of character for my father to allow his ex-wife's demise to change pans made months in advance. My godmother and Lucius' current girlfriend, Bellatrix, although unfailingly polite to me, doubtless felt that London in the height of summer was an insupportable option. But in deference to my continued grief, they waited until the evening of the traditional pre-holiday dinner to inform me that they were going ahead with the meetings as planned and I would be spending the summer holidays at The Burrow.

I received his piece of information with a marked lack of enthusiasm. The Burrow meant my uncle's family and a Devon summer of wondering when the rain would stop. At my glum expression my father finally lost his temper.

"Honestly, Draco, you might show a little more enthusiasm," he snapped, whisking the debris from a recent bout of comfort eating into my silver waste-paper basket. "These last few weeks have been hard on everyone, not just you, and it wasn't as if you were unaware that Narcissa was ill. She told me you'd spoken about it together and you understood..." He broke off as my eyes filled with tears.

My mother and I had spoken about her illness, and her last letters had included as series of little line drawings- a small black-clad Draco weeping at the graveside followed by a succession of little Dracos resolutely enjoying themselves flying, hang gliding, mountain-climbing and white-water rafting. But these private images didn't fit with the successful social funeral orchestrated by my mother's admirers. The photos in the Daily Prophet showed me in the background dressed, as usual, in my school uniform. Fortunately for me, Virginia, who would otherwise have eclipsed me with staged Ophelia-esque misery, was still at school sitting the exams I'd avoided.

"At least you could appreciate your aunt's kindness in offering to look after you," my father pointed out, discounting my Uncle Arthur's influence as everyone invariably did. "And Virginia will be company for you. You could try to get to know her better, she would be a suitable wedding match for you." I blanched at the thought, the horrific possibility jolting me. Why was my father so insistent that I married inside the family bloodline? I'd sooner marry Harry than that snobby little Gryffindor.

"Virginia's a poisonous witch!" I informed my mother. "I'd sooner marry a scorpion!"

"That could be arranged," said my father, fixing me with a frozen look that usually means trouble then, unexpectedly, he laughed.

"I admit she does lay it on a bit thick sometimes," he agreed, and sat down on my desk chair. "Did you really want to wear black, Draco? I thought Virginia looked like an extra from Macbeth."

"Virginia never looks like an extra," I said huffily, disarmed by his sudden sympathy. "And I don't want to go and stay with her."

"And I don't really feel like going to these meetings," my father said with an edge to his voice. "But Bella would be disappointed if I cancelled now. So we're both going to live with it, OK?"

"Ok," I replied, accepting the inevitable, and she smiled approvingly.

"Don't worry about Virginia," he said reassuringly. "She's probably as scared of you as you are of her."

I rolled my eyes.

"Father, that's wasps," I pointed out.

VIRGINIA WEASLEY'S BOOK OF LIES

_Virginia's Book_

_My mother said, I never should_

_Play with the gypsies in the wood_

_If I did, she would say_

_Naughty little girl to disobey_

_Your hair won't curl, your shoes won't shine,_

_Naughty little girl you sha'n't be mine._

_-_Anon.

When I bought this book in Diagon Alley I was going to give it the title _A Book of Spells_. But this was just after the reading of Aunt Narcissa's will and I was annoyed enough with my parents to want to scream. So I call it _The Book Of Lies _because I am lied to every day and still don't know if my family thinks I am too stupid to realise it.

If it wasn't for the fact that my father is absolutely devastated I wouldn't even be sure that Narcissa was dead. I've learnt not to count on anything I'm told. But if even his own sister's death can't persuade him to tell me the truth I am beginning to doubt that anything will. I don't even know if I'd believe him. My parents have lied so often and for so long that recognising the truth may be impossible.

When I gave up sciences last year Arthur, my father, asked me seriously if I thought that was a wise idea. I told him I'd decided to be a Creationist and that I didn't believe in science. He frowned and said I shouldn't be so narrow-minded. Narrow-minded! Maybe he won't think that after that witchcraft scandal breaks. I'm getting tried of the way both my parents refer to my 'coven' with an amused depreciation as if it were a harmless teenage phrase. What does it take to get them to believe I'M SERIOUS!

I can't remember what it was that first gave me the clue that we're not like other families. Certainly nothing my parents did. The preserve their façade at all times- my father the cloistered academic and my mother a charming hostess and brilliant cook. It's only because I live with them that I can see how much of that glossy exterior isn't real and even that's been increasingly difficult to tell since they sent me to boarding school. Perhaps it was my Aunt Narcissa who first gave me the clue. She might preserve the family's image in public but she never pretended to find the uncanny or extraordinary humorous. I didn't realise until the reading of the will how much I was going to miss her. I suppose until then I half-believed she wasn't really dead.

My parents didn't let me go to the funeral, preserving the pretence that it would be healthier for me to sit my exams like any normal child. But my cousin Draco went and his father is even keener of preserving normality than my mother is. I saw Draco in the photos, looking vaguely lost in school uniform. He isn't allowed to wear black for some reason and he looked pretty sick when he saw I was wearing mourning at the will reading. Maybe he wouldn't be so jealous if he had to put up with all the teasing little references to 'Ginny and her gothic friends' or 'Ginny's vampire chic'.

Narcissa gave me the necklace I wear all the time. A poppy, of course, for my middle name. I have so many now that sometimes it's hard to remember who gave me what. But this wasn't _Papaver rhoeas_, the red poppy everyone thinks I was named for and constantly make jokes about in reference to the colour of my hair; but _Papaver somniferum_, the white opium poppy. She called it a talisman when she gave it to me, and I knew it was important because my parents looked disapproving, just as they did when the lawyer gave Draco his legacy. I _know _the painting's important as well. It's a clue to the strangeness at the heart of my family. Maybe my parents are waiting to reveal the truth suitably dramatically on my twenty-first birthday or something, but I've got news for them: I won't be waiting for it.

I think I'll leave this book behind when I leave home. Then my parents will know why I left. I'm not going to stick this out much longer- that's for damned certain. I cheated on all my exams this summer. If it counts as cheating to have a perfect photographic memory. Another thing my parents dismiss. "Oh, Gin's always had a good memory," they smarm to my teachers. "She's such a good student." I'm not. I'm a terrible student. I didn't even bother writing anything on the last two papers. I just concentrated hard on the words in my memory and was presented with pages of my own black-inked handwriting. It's a good job that, since the Dark Side won the war, they tried to block out all magic from the school and therefore took down the barriers preventing magic from being used. Using magic was probably a mistake though because I was so _bored_ while everybody else's quills scratched away for the rest of the afternoon.

I'm bored almost all the time now. Either bored or angry. Sometimes I almost hate my parents. Their refusal to admit what's happening to me makes me feel so trapped, like I was in that diary in second year, and in that room in the Ministry in fourth year. The irony is that everyone else seems to think I'm so lucky. Like Draco. When we were kids we were almost friends but since coming to Hogwarts he's determined to think I'm his enemy. It's my popularity that does it- he hates the fact that I rule Hogwarts and no one even knows he exists anymore. He used to be the King of Slytherin, but he turned traitor against Lord Voldemort during the war in Sixth year and when we lost, he paid dearly. Now everyone's forgotten him. I think he's even forgotten it happened to him. I can't understand him. My cousin is such a mouse about everything now. "He's intimidated by you," my mother says oh-so-sensibly, as if Draco doesn't share an eighth of my genetic material. Whatever I've got, he's got too, perhaps more powerfully, although I confess I haven't seen much sign of it. He's obviously heard my mother's coven jokes because the couple of times I've tried to talk to him about witchcraft he acts as if I'm deluded. He's forgotten too. Sometimes I almost wish I had. My life would be much easier.

Gods, why is everyone so blind? Even the Coven, this clique that's formed itself around me, doesn't really believe in the supernatural. Susan and Luna and Pansy and the rest of them go along with it the same way they'd jump on any bandwagon to be cool. I'd like to show them some of the stuff I can really do but they'd be scared out of their tiny minds and, to be honest, maybe I would be too. I haven't done all that much really, yet. I keep hoping one of my parents will make this big revelation. A kind of "Hey, Gin, well done, you guessed it, you're a witch!" speech and explain what's going on.

In the meantime, I just do simple things. I can open any lock- damn useful when breaking bounds at night. I started with levitating pencils but that's so teen-witchy and at least lock-picking has some practical use. But there's weird stuff mostly- like whatever desk I'm sitting in, if I reach into it there's the book I want. In a year though no-one's noticed that although we need about a million text books and files for lessons I never carry any more than a tiny little black backpack large enough for some makeup and a pen. They just stagger about with their satchels and hockey sticks and endless pieces of paper and feebly wonder why I look so much more cool. And lessons. I mean, since _when _am I supposed to be this intellectual genius? But everything I do gets an O (for outstanding).

But that's nothing compared to some of the nasty stuff. Things like making people like me, or making them believe what I say. I used to do a lot of that- making myself more popular. It's how come I got the head boy of Durmstrang to take me to the Winter Ball when he'd only met me once. Ginny's fatal charisma. Everyone sees it but they don't really SEE it. Or me.

I'm sick of being treated like a child. I'm sick of being lied to. Are my parents ever going to tell me the truth, or am I supposed to just go to school and university and do my exams honestly like a good little witch? Screw that. I want OUT of Hogwarts, with its stupid rules about how to wear your hair and stupid punishments like stripping naked to male Death Eaters for forgetting your homework. I want to DO something. Anything! I want to use my magic and understand it, instead of having to hide it and have everyone believe I'm making it up. Hell, it's not even Hogwarts, I want out of my whole like.

And now I'm about to be shipped down to Devon again. I have a month of Draco's company to look forward to while her father and his girlfriend go and bow to some stupid Lord Voldemort. I bet Draco doesn't even know what they do. My mother's thrilled by the idea- anything to avoid having to spend the summer in my unrelieved company, now all my brothers are dead. She's already phoned the stables to arrange a horse for Draco, oblivious to the fact that he hates horses and rides like a sack of potatoes. I can't see anything to look forward to about the summer. Draco's been like the walking dead since the funeral and even at his best he loathes me. Shame, really. I bet my mother thinks he'll make the perfect husband to complete my prefect little life. NOT.

I swear I'm not taking this much longer. I'm sixteen years old. I'm not going to wait about the rest of my life, waiting for my parents to be honest with me. I'm not going to meekly do NEMTs (Nastily Exhausting Muggle Tests, as opposed to the much better sounding Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests, or NEWTs) and go to school like a good kid when I've got all this… all this POWER inside me, wanting to be let out.

PHOENIX TEARS

_Harry's Book_

_That is no country for old men. The young_

_In one another's arms, birds in the trees_

_-Those dying generations- at their song,_

_The salmon-falls, the mackerel-crowded seas,_

_Fish, flesh or fowl, commend all summer long_

_Whatever is begotten, born, and dies._

_Caught in that sensual music all neglect_

_Monuments of unageing intellect._

W. B. Yeats

I think my godfather's stories hide a secret. But if there's a hidden truth to them, I don't know what it is. I don't know whether it's by his choice we travel the worlds looking for my father, or if we suffer under the weight of some curse, but each new transition that leaves _him _eager for discovery makes _me _increasingly weary of change. We walk the long road, my godfather and I and, just as its beginning is hidden by a veil of secrets, its ending can only just be glimpsed.

I think that in this, our most recent shift between worlds, I can see for the first time the beginning of the end. But Sirius is unusually reticent. We've hardly spoken since we arrived in this cold, wet world full of machines and unquiet minds. Already the village, our home for the last year, is receding like a memory of long ago. The liquid voices of the people and the river and the quiet babbling in the back of my mind don't belong here. Marten made me this book and, fingering the words branded into the cover, I wonder if they were a joke. The people have a strange sense of humour, and what they made of my father I'm still not certain of. Sirius wins people over easily, catching them in his web of words, but they distrust him easily too. More than once our departure from a world has been hasty, carrying nothing with us but Sirius' winning words.

Just this morning Marten passed me this book, an imitation of those he had seen in Sirius' hut, with a diffident smile.

"It's so you can have secrets too," he said as I tried to thank him. "Like the Storyteller."

I wonder how he knew that Sirius doesn't share his secrets with me. But then, standing in the grove of lilac trees, while around us the life of the village flowed on in its uncomplicated placidity, I thanked him and meant it. When, a little while later, Sirius came to tell me we were leaving and we were yanked once more through the barrier between worlds, this book is all I cared to take with me. Possessions have been left behind too often for me to care much about them, but writing in this carefully crafted gift I believe that Marten was right. I should have some secrets of my own.

I'll begin with saying that I'm excited about this change. Despite the city, which is a shock after living in a community of fifty people for more than a year, and the rain, the idea of finding out some of my dead parents' own secrets makes me eager to get to wherever we're going. Sirius is grimly uncommunicative. All I know is that my Aunt Narcissa is dead and this must be at least as much of a shock for me as it is to him, since before this new piece of information I wasn't even aware I had an Uncle. Now I am burning to know more, but Sirius is grieving and I don't feel able to pester him for answers. The long road has taught me to be patient and answers will come soon enough. We travel now in a long rattling vehicle- a train- a journey I enjoy more the further the village recedes in my mind. Sirius has inevitably acquired a book from somewhere and is reading it with the fixed concentration of a scholar. We share the carriage with a woman and her two children. The woman is reading a book as well, one with a bright pink cover entitled "Witch Weekly- Enchant Your Man", and the two children are alternately playing with and fighting over a toy that makes little trills of sound when they touch it. I am dying to have a go. It seems to have some kind of story in it and points are awarded. I am filled with avarice. One of the best things about changing worlds is the games. I learn them quickly and win often. Sirius has occasionally capitalized on this skill of mine and learning the games seems to gain friends faster than almost any other activity.

We are travelling to The Burrow. Where and what that is, I don't know. Those two words were all my godfather said in response to my question. The death of my aunt has made him taciturn and he is moving much faster than usual. I don't know where he has acquired the money to travel on this train since we customarily arrive in a world destitute, but he has hustled and bustled the pair of us onwards so quickly that I still haven't had time to work out the rhythms of this new world. Covertly, I study the clothes of the woman and the two children. The children both wear trousers of a blue material and shirts with words on them. Language at least presents no problems, this is one I can both speak and read. But I am mystified by meaning. One child's shirt has pictures of dirty-looking people on them and proclaims "Weird Sisters Rule!" which is odd as none of the people on the shirt is a girl, let alone a sister. The other, even more puzzlingly, is bright orange and exclaims "Chudley Cannons" in large black letters. Underneath this there is a picture of a redheaded boy. On the back it says "R.I.P Ron Weasley, the best Keeper EVER!" The child is humming a song under her breath, which seems to go something along the lines of "Weasley is our King".

The woman, reassuringly, is wearing a dress with a yellow flower print. Well then, time to explore further...

I've now walked up and down this train and it appears that clothes at least are similar to those of the village. Homespun is not common by any means, and men wear their hair shorter hear, but no-one gives me a second glance as I wander up and down the carriages. I think Sirius will stand out more than I do. There seems to be an unspoken rule here that children and new-adults have more freedom in their dress than older people. The woman in our carriage definitely gave him a second glance before settling herself and the children down. Normally, he would have charmed her immediately but now there is nothing in his manner to show that what whatever she is reading cannot exercise one fraction of the fascination of my godfather's stories. The journey does not fit into the pattern of our travels. Sirius is normally a loquacious companion. He seems to be constantly in motion, talking, gesturing, sharing a pipe or a drink with our companions on the road. It's hard for strangers to tell that he is learning, soaking up their reactions, reading an entire culture in the way they laugh or frown. When strangers first meet him he is alien and exotic, a man from far away; when they bid him farewell they see in him one of their own, a traveller from no further than the next township whose customs are the same as their own. Sometimes I find that irritating, the ease with which he gains people's trust. But now I want him to come out of that musty volume and start talking, to tell me where we are travelling, to charm the woman into putting down her book, to draw the children away from their toy with the spell of his voice.

We are going to see family and I don't even know who they are. They'll be a community, a small-knit group, as close to each other as the villagers. But they'll see us as one of their own. That's new to me. My godfather and I are strangers wherever we go, and suddenly it seems important that this belonging isn't wasted. If I have a family, I want to know who they are. I prepare to put down this book and the pen I found when we arrived in this carriage and to engage my father in conversation...

I don't know what to make of the result.

"Sirius," I said quietly, conscious that the woman was listening. "Sirius." He looked up, his eyes blank for a moment, and I realised that he might not have been reading his book at all but using it to gain a shield of privacy.

"Hmmm?" he murmured, focusing on me slowly.

"I've forgotten the names of the people we're meeting," I told him. The lie was an old one. Not knowing the name of your destination, or the name of the world you live in is unbelievable. But forgetfulness is an acceptable lapse. It's the way we ask questions in public when ignorance would be thought peculiar. However, there was an unspoken criticism in my question; after all Sirius _should _have told me where we were going.

"The people?" Sirius lifted an eyebrow but he accepted the ruse. "I don't know for certain how many of them will be there."

He paused for thought and then listed a bunch of names quickly, the rhythm of his voice making a half-poem out of the litany:

"My brother Arthur, his wife Molly, their daughter, Virginia, Lucius, who was the husband of my younger sister, and his son, Draco. He'll probably be a friend for you there; I shouldn't think Virginia would have much to say. Her brothers died last year."

I blinked, trying to take it all in. Sirius' recitation made it appear that there were hundreds of people waiting to greet us and it was only after a few minutes' thought that I got the names clear in my head. By then he had returned to his book and I didn't have the desire to disturb him again.

Arthur. Molly. Virginia. Lucius. Draco.

Arthur. Molly. Virginia. Lucius. Draco. Sirius. Harry.

The names fit easily into the rattling of the train. I can't imagine how we'll fit into their group. I can't envisage the faces behind the names. I don't know if we'll be strangers to them or if, like my godfather, they'll have that gift of fascination; of seeming both alien and familiar at once. Two men, a woman, a boy and a girl. My father's secrets. The train carries us to meet them as inexorably as my father's stories journey towards an ending.


	3. Chapter Two: PART ONE

MORPHEUS' KINGDOM

CHAPTER TWO

A DRAGON'S HONOUR

Draco's Book 

_Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch; be your to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow._

_-John McCrae_

I had convinced myself that I was resigned to my stay at The Burrow. But as my father's black limousine pulled smoothly past the gates I felt a deep dread sit itself in the pit of my stomach. Sitting in the back of the car, clutching the painting my mother left me, I gazed out of the windows at the banks of flowers on either side of the road. Poppies everywhere.

The Burrow had certainly changed since the last time I had visited- last time, it was practically a barn. Now it is an elegant country house- presumably now Molly had only one child to worry about instead of seven, she had deemed it acceptable to go and work. And I must admit, they have done an extremely good job.

I had forgotten the uholy way Virginia's parents dote on her now her other brothers are dead and buried. Naturally, they wouldn't think of doing anything so vulgar as gloating. Instead they treat us lesser mortals with a dreadful pitying kindness. At parents' days at school they study the work on display with care, deliberately looking at everything, as if every last piece of juvenilia had an intrinsic merit. Other people laud their children's gifts to the skies; Virginia's parents don't need to. They know and we know that Virginia wins every competition before the rules have even been set. But I do wish they wouldn't try to be so _nice _about it all the time.

Of course, Virginia's sickening habit of excelling at everything she puts her devious little mind to is what gets me into trouble. The teachers expect me to be like Virginia or my father, and when I'm not they punish me. I still remember what they made me do last time...

I was sitting in Chemistry, trying my best to avoid Professor Snape's eye. I got the feeling that he didn't like me, although goodness only knew why. If I made even one tiny mistake, he would land me in detention immediately. Ever since the old headmaster left, things have changed. Everyone says that, although no-one is quite sure how they know this, as even the oldest students cannot remember anything beyond the new headmaster's reign over the school. Odd, really, since apparently the old headmaster only died last year. Strange how people forget what they do not want to remember extremely quickly.

_While I was lost in this particular thought, one of my classmates, Seamus, tapped me on the shoulder._

"_Look, mate, do you want me to carry on with this for ye? Ye look like you could do with going to the Hospital Wing, though I'm not sure ye'd really want to go there. Me, I wouldn't go there with a barge pole between me and the matron!"_

_I had just opened my mouth to thank him and politely decline, when Snape's voice barked at me from the back of the classroom. I felt my heart sink to the toes of my shoes, as my worst fears were answered._

"_Malfoy! Detention. Tonight, 8:00."_

_Seamus looked apologetically at me. I half-smiled at him and shrugged me shoulders at him. It wasn't as if I wasn't going to get detention tonight anyway. _

_That night, I walked into Snape's classroom filled with dread. With Snape, you were never sure what to expect. At least with the other teachers, you knew what they would make you do. They were rather predictable. But Snape? It was different every time. Last time it had been whips and chains, but who knew._

_As I glanced around the apparently deserted classroom, I realised with horror that it wouldn't just be me and Snape. It looked like the Headmaster himself was going to pay us a visit. Oh, joy. _

_I sat on the desk, bracing myself for what was clearly going to happen. In this Deatheaters' Playground of a school, you knew what would happen if the headmaster arrived._

_With a soft click, the door opened and Snape stood at the door._

"_Malfoy. I am glad you decided to actually show up at the designated time, tonight," he sneered, and it took all the resistance I had not to punch him. Hard._

"_Yes, Professor Snape," I answered, gritting my teeth._

"_Ah. The youngest Malfoy." Came the Headmaster's voice from behind Snape. I looked up, startled. I had not heard or seen him enter._

"_Shirt off, Malfoy." Barked Professor Snape. I slipped off my white tee-shirt with only the slightest amount of hesitation._

"_Trousers down, boy. I don't know why you even bother wearing clothes to detentions, you so clearly enjoy getting them. You're like a slut, you apparently spread your legs for all the teachers in this school." Said the Headmaster with a hint of a laugh to his voice. Well, as close to a laugh as Voldemort got, anyway._

_Closing my eyes, I slipped my trousers down my legs and braced myself for the inevitable command._

"_Over the desk, boy."_

_Shit. I had half-hoped he'd had something different planned. But then again, since when had he ever been merciful? I bent over the desk, and I felt the first blow of the cats-tails on my back. There would probably be about 2o of these. Then... who knew? All I could say is that it would be very, very painful..._

I shuddered, remembering this. But of course, Virginia didn't even know theses punishments existed, she was such a good little girl. The Headmaster had taken to her at once, and so she has never once got a detention.

My father knows all about these 'punishments'. He doesn't even bother to try to stop them- he just says that they will strengthen my resolve, or something stupid. It doesn't help that I am gay, so he thinks I enjoy it.

I hugged my painting tighter and hoped that I'd be able to survive this holiday without dying from Virginia over-exposure. Strangely enough, it seemed to help. My father had looked at me narrowly when I told him I wanted to take the painting with me but the fight I had expected hadn't materialised. Instead he had said, "I don't suppose it'll be much of a problem," and found me some brown paper to wrap it up in. Relieved, I tried to be especially helpful with the preparations for his trip. I didn't think I could have faced leaving the painting behind. Besides, I wouldn't put it past my father to ship it off to be burned the minute my back was turned. My mother had wanted me to have it, and it must have meant something to her. I didn't want it to be destroyed.

The car came to a halt and my father turned off the engine with a sigh of contentment. While I climbed awkwardly out of the car, he and Bellatrix gazed at the house with a kind of distant pride. They do this every time they visit and it's inevitably followed by a conversation on the way home in the car about what generous hosts my aunt and uncle are. Since I was being inflicted upon that hospitality I wasn't quite as misty-eyed about it but I admit that, were it not for Virginia, I'd find The Burrow an attractive prospect as well.

The house is very big-5 storeys high, rambling everywhere but somehow managing to look extremely elegant and attractive. It was extended when Molly and Arthur still had seven children- there were Virginia, Ronald, Frederick, George, Percival, Charles and Bill. The house was big enough for the whole horde. It has all of the interesting character features that parents rave about: a little staircase that you get to through a cupboard, and twisty, turrety bits that make it look like a children's book illustration. It still can't hold a candle to Malfoy Manor, where I live, though. My mother spent a whole year after she and my father split up (not officially, of course- Malfoys don't divorce) living in one of the converted barns. I have vague memories of visiting her and being jealous of Virginia and her brothers who got to live with my mother when I didn't. I don't remember her brothers, which is rather odd since they only died a year ago, but still.

My father doesn't seem to find visiting the Burrow socially awkward but that's mostly to do with Molly. She and my father are friends from way back and my father sometimes says, "Molly is the only one who has any comprehension of how difficult it was to be married to someone like your mother." But really Uncle Arthur isn't anything like my mother.

It was Arthur who opened the door to us and I thought he was looking better than he did at the will reading. But my father's death had marked him, and his greyish hair always makes him look older than he is anyway, He kissed Bellatrix on the cheek and shook hands with my father before turning to me.

"I'm looking forward to having you stay with us, Draco." He said warmly. "It seems like a long while since we've spent any time with you.

I tried to smile back and mumbled some kind of thank you but was saved from having to make any more conversation by the appearance of my Aunt Molly, who set about organizing us. Father and Sylvester were packed off to the library to talk about books and Bellatrix and I were settled down in the kitchen, where my aunt broke off from doing complicated things with the Aga to pour herself and Bellatrix drinks. Molly doesn't like Bellatrix, although she is some kind of distant relative, for reasons no one except Virginia even pretends to know why. And I'm not sure if Virginia really knows.

"Lunch is in an hour and a half," my aunt explained to us. "I've had to put things back a bit because it's just been one of those days for some reason. Sylvester found a dead snowy owl in the drawing room fireplace, with a bit of paper attached to its leg!" she said, frowning slightly.

Bellatrix made the standard offers of help and my aunt smiled at her sunnily. "There's no need," she confided in us. "Everything's under control but I have to sit here and look attentively at things to make sure it stays that way. The Aga's playing up, it seems to have a life of its own. I swear once I even heard it talk to me, telling me the sausages were about to burn! I must be going mad. It happens when you get old, though I doubt you ever will, Miss Lestrange!" she said with a jokey smile on her face. "Why don't you take your things upstairs and get settled, Draco? Sylvester will bring up your cases later but you can start to move in. We've given you the L-shaped room. Don't worry about the orange- it... it used to be Ron's."

I agreed as positively as I could, since it wasn't as id I had much option, and picked up my painting awkwardly. My aunt gave it a look and the frowned unexpectedly.

"You don't mind, do you, Molly?" Bellatrix asked, catching the look. "He seems to have become quite attached to it, poor sweetheart." This was said in a falsely sympathetic voice. There was no love lost between Bellatrix and I- she strongly disliked my mother and her family, and wanted nothing better than to have me out of the way so she could have my father to herself. I would have felt sorry for him, if he hadn't been the one who'd left me here in order to go to 'meetings' with Bellatrix.

"No, that's alright," Molly said quickly. "It's no problem, Draco. Hang it wherever you want." But once I'd left the room I heard her say something in a voice too low for me to hear and I knew she wasn't entirely happy about it.

I wandered slowly upstairs and found that the L-shaped room had been made up for me. A large vase of flowers sat on my bedside table (even though I'm a boy, Molly seems to delight in putting flowers _everywhere_- I wouldn't be surprised if her knickers had flowers on them) but for a mercy, didn't appear to have wildflowers of any description. I dumped my shoulder bag on one of the (flowery) beds and unwrapped my painting. There was a suitable nail on the wall facing the bed and I removed a framed print of Hogwarts to make room for it. Once I had put it up carefully, I sat and faced it. The print was still leaning up against the wall and the comparison made the castle my mother painted look even stranger. It was almost as if she'd forgotten how to draw; the shadows and colours were all right but the shapes looked sketched in and there was no detailing on any of them, which made the castle look flat and two-dimensional.

It was then I heard a knock and turned to see Virginia lolling in the open doorway looking like a poster child for the MTV Generation. She was wearing faded blue jeans and an immense white shirt and had tied her red hair into two short braids. She would have looked about ten years old if she hadn't been wearing makeup. She half-smiled at me, which became a look of complete glee when she saw what I as doing.

"You brought the painting!" she said, coming in uninvited to stand almost in front of me and look at it. "Excellent. Do my parents know?"

"Your mother said it wasn't a problem," I told her, not giving it away that it had seemed as if it might be.

Poppy raised her eyebrows as if she gravely doubted it but all she said was, "You missed the NEMTs."

"I know," I said. "What were they like?"

"Très tedious," she said, flipping a hand dismissively. "Don't bother revising. But your... _French_... teacher sent you some work," The French emphasised as if to say that she didn't think that Professor Karkaroff actually taught French, "And your friend..." she paused and wrinkled her nose thoughtfully, "...Blaise? He sent a letter."

"He gave it to you?" I said stupidly, and Virginia gave me a 'well, obviously' look. I flushed, realising that she had already managed to wrong-foot me within five minutes of conversation. "I didn't realise you knew him."

"I don't," Virginia said, flicking her eyes at me. "But he's kind of cute, and someone must have told him that I'm your cousin. The letter's in my room, do you want it?"

"Yeah, thanks," I said getting up and following her, trying to disguise the fact I was seething. My absenteeism had obviously undone all my hard work spent disassociating myself from Virginia, and Blaise would almost certainly be angry with me for not telling him, since he had a huge crush on her. I trailed after Virginia into her room and immediately determined that I wouldn't comment on it. Last year Virginia's room was purple and blue with white muslin curtains hanging from her four-poster bed. Now it looked like 'Hello visits the Addams family in their Beautiful Showplace Home'. The walls were black, the floorboards were black, the muslin curtains were black and had acquired huge rip marks and tears. Only one wall out of the four was still purple and the furniture had been dragged back from the wall and covered with velvet, whether as dust covers or part of the gothic décor wasn't clear, ready for Virginia to paint it. My cousin was obviously preparing for a no-holds-barred bout of 'Let's Wind Up The Parents'.

I shuddered inwardly while Virginia unearthed a tiny black backpack from the gloom and produced several badly photocopied sheets of paper and a red envelope.

"Do you want to read it now?" she asked. "My mother says I should take you for a walk, by the way."

The only thing that makes staying with Virginia halfway bearable is that she doesn't let her parents force us together. Virginia lies to my aunt and uncle as easily as breathing about all the social activities we've been sharing together when in reality I've been reading books while she flirts with boys. Either she realises that I cordially hate her or she just doesn't want to spend time with me any more than I do with her. But she does cover for me with her parents when she could easily dump me in trouble with mine by complaining that I don't like her. It's not a great help but it is practically the only time I've seen Virginia go out of her way to help me out. Normally I would have colluded, but I didn't want to read the letter right away, not while I had to be with Virginia. And I didn't want to risk my father of accusing me of not trying with her, so I said:

"I wouldn't mind going for a walk. Where did Molly say we should go?"  
Virginia shrugged. "We may as well go to the treehouse," she said. "At least there are books."

We spent the rest of the time before lunch there. Virginia's treehouse is a custom-built kids' fantasy. It was built for her and her brothers when she was six. It's up in a big oak tree and has more mod cons than some council flats. There are two platforms; one is about twenty square foot and supports a small house, which has bookshelves and small cupboards and a hatchway in the floor through which you can let down a ladder. For some unknown reason the house also has electricity and Virginia has acquired a fridge from somewhere which is inside one of the cupboards. A spiral staircase leads out of the room and then extends further up the tree to a second platform, which is half the size of the first and has only a low railing around it. When we were young enough to almost be friends Ron, Virginia and I played out here and I know that Virginia sleeps here sometimes because there's a hammock next to the top platform. I swear her parents don't seem to have considered that she could break her neck some day.

The only other good thing about staying with Virginia is that she has reasonable books. The tree house's current selection is a bizarre collection of Wiccan magic books and everything ever published by Bloomsbury. That allows quite a wide range of choice and I pulled out a book called Harry Potter. Reading it, I felt a strange sense of déjà vu. It was like I was that guy who shared my name!

As we walked back in Virginia said,

"I can't stand that book. Have you noticed how the characters always accept the 'just' criticisms of their elders?"

Taken by surprise, I laughed and found myself saying, "What about the way Professor Dumbledore always knows the true story?"

Virginia's look darkened slightly. "I hate that man. He was the cause of..." but then, seeming to remember something, she stiffened and didn't say anything more.

I wondered what she had been going to say.

END OF DRACO's SECOND ENTRY


End file.
